War
by Zuiri
Summary: 5-10 years after the War of the Five Kings as well as flashbacks. Jon tries to save the world. Gendry searches for Arya. Tyrion finds Sansa. Two Queens rule Westeros. Ships: Jon x Val, Arya x Gendry, Jaime x Brienne, Sansa x Tyrion, Dany x Yara. My summaries give the actual work no justice. Please give this a chance :)
1. Val I

***A/N:** First Game of Thrones/ASOIAF fanfic. Combination of TV show and books.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to George R.R. Martin. I am in no way making money from this story.

Some helpful things

This story is a combination of the TV show and books.

Sansa stayed in the Vale, Val is included in the Night's Watch/Wildling storyline, Gendry was not sold to Melisandre and stayed with the BWB, Brienne did not find Sansa and Lady Stoneheart is included.

This story jumps around from the day after the stabbing of Jon Snow to 10 years later.

Pairings/ships include: Jon x Val, Arya x Gendry, Sansa x Tyrion, and light Jaime x Brienne.

This story is a mature story and contains mature content, and strong/foul language. You have been warned.

Also, I do not have a beta. All mistakes are mine.

Enjoy & feel free to review.

 _ **The Wall**_

 _ **10 Years Ago...**_

 **VAL**

Her chambers were different from the ice cells below Castle Black - though they kept Val a prisoner just the same. She had been locked inside the room for "safe keeping", or so Ser Allister Thorne had said. She was no fool - she knew what the Night's Watch was planning. Jon Snow had been killed - stabbed by his own sworn brothers - just one night ago. Immediately, Thorne and his allies had found her in her chambers and promptly locked the door from the outside. She was helpless, trapped. Unable to find Jon and get him _away_ from these horrible, _wicked_ men.

"I do apologize, _Princess_." Thorne had sounded triumphant upon his return, proud of confining Val from her people. Proud of killing Jon. "But with our Lord Commander no longer with us, we cannot risk an uproar of your Wildlings."

"They will rise with or without me," Val snarled back, though the great heavy door stood between them. "You were a _fool_ to kill Jon Snow!"

Ser Allister laughed. "Do not worry, Princess. You and your Wildlings will see Lord Snow soon enough." And then he was gone.

 _They plan to kill me,_ the answer wasn't as surprising as Val thought it might be. With Jon dead, what did the Night's Watch care of her people?

Ghost howled throughout the night, crying in pain, loss, and guilt. Val listened until he'd grown hoarse of voice and settled for whimpers and growls. _He's caged, most like. Just as I am._ Her heart ached for the beast. _I will free you, Ghost. I swear on the Old Gods, as soon as I can escape, I will come let you free. And you can run wild beyond the Wall, hunting, and living as you should be. There is no one left for you here._

Her heart ached again and she laid in bed thinking of the North and Ghost and Jon Snow. Soon tears wet her pillow and her body had curled itself into a ball.

By morning Val found herself still alive. She spent it waiting for her inevitable execution. But instead of the stomping of men rushing to her doors, nothing. Midday came and went, with only silence save the howling winds of the North. No food, no water. Nothing but the still tension as she waited, staring at the chamber door in anticipation.

Eveningfall found Val leaning back in a wooden chair with her feet crossed and resting on the table under her window. She wore her white leathers and furs, as always. But her favored white boots sat by her bed.

Her new boots were stolen. A brother of the Night's Watch decided to drink too much and tried to rape her three nights ago. In return, Val pulled a dagger from her belt and stabbed the man in the side. His boots were her reward.

The Night's Watch brothers were not happy about the incident. But Jon Snow had kept her safe from a hanging. "He tried to rape a _Princess_ , you fucking fools! Wildling or not, she has more honor than he."

Val smiled, remembering. _He wasn't so bad. For a Crow._ Tears pinched her eyes and for a few moments she blinked. _He wouldn't want me to cry for him._

Softly, she heard footsteps outside her door. _Ser Allister_ , Val thought. _Come to take me to my death._ She rose, grabbing her dagger from the wooden table and faced the door. She was a Wildling, a _Princess_ to these Southerners; she would not die meekly.

Her chamber door creaked open. And Val gasped.

He stood before her as whole and _alive_ as ever.

" _Val_ ," Jon breathed out her name in a way that dripped with relief. Ghost came padding in after him, looking at her with the same intensity.

Without a word, she dropped her dagger to the floor, quickly crossed the room, and threw her arms around Jon's neck. Tears pricked and threatened to spill, but she didn't care. Jon Snow was alive. "You were _dead_! Thorne said-said.."

He enclosed her in his own embrace and held her for a moment. "Ser Allister is dead. It's alright." Val clung to him. "Are you well?" His voice was low and laced with concern. _As always..._

"Well enough," she did not let go of him when she answered. "They wouldn't let me out of this cage."

"No, they wouldn't have," Jon nodded. "The Night's Watch fear the Wildlings would rally behind you and Tormund. They fear _you_." He loosened his wrap about her and Val slid out of the fold.

"They fear my _people_. They fear our _numbers_. They do not fear _me_. Half of them have tried raping me!"

Jon smirked, "And none have succeeded."

Val grinned. "Aye. Not a one."

His smirk perked into a small grin and Jon held her gaze. _He is a handsome one_ , Val reflected. She took in the sight of him. Tall, strong, with loose black curls and intense dark grey eyes. Sometimes Val swore his eyes were black, they were so dark. But standing close to him, she saw the difference. When her eyes reached his jerkin, she couldn't help but linger on the holes and slashes from his stab wounds.

"What happened?" She finally asked, bringing her eyes to meet his.

Jon took in a deep breath and held it before he answered her. "I...died." His eyes grew somber as he spoke. "They stabbed me and...and everything went black. And that was all."

Val frowned in confusion. "How are you standing before me?"

He looked to the floor and shook his head. "I don't know...The Red Woman, she brought me back, with dark magic."

Val snorted, "You must be some Lord Commander. And some _fool_ to trust _that_ woman!"

"I don't trust her!" Jon growled angrily. He fixed his fierce eyes upon her and glared. "I didn't ask for this. Seven Hells, I didn't _want this_!"

The pain in his voice filled Val with tenderness towards him. It was evident that Jon Snow had been tormented and weighed down by the responsibilities of his vows and role as a leader. Unfortunately his actions as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had been considered traitorous by a select few of the brothers. Jon was murdered by his own men.

But here he stood before her. Alive again. And thanks to a Red Witch.

"And I'm not Lord Commander." Jon said softly. "Not anymore."

She smiled, "No vows then? You mean to finally bed me?"

"I could," He said it with conviction and gave her a firm stare. Val felt a chill at that. "But I won't."

She was going to speak, but Jon held up his hand to stop her. "We have to leave," he said firmly. "It's not safe here, _especially_ not for you."

Val scoffed in protest.

"Val," he said with pleading in his voice. " _Please,_ listen to me. I have to get you out of here. We need to go back to your people."

She had no desire to remain at The Wall with the Night's Watch. The constant stares and taunts spat at her. The fights that broke out between her people and the Brothers. The overwhelming tension of _so many people_ all cooped together. Supplies were diminishing quickly and tempers rose higher and higher with each pass of the day.

And still, she needed the protection of The Wall against the greater threat. _The Others…_ "My people need The Wall. We must pass to the other side. We -" She shook her head. "- _I_ need to protect them."

"Val, you are not Mance. His quest should not fall to your shoulders."

"Mance was our _King_!" She countered. "And Dalla, my sister, our _Queen_! Now both are dead and their babe gone. I am all that's left of Mance and Dalla. It should be _me_ who continues their fight!"

Jon pursed his lips together and let a frustrated puff of air out through his nose. He stared at her, not budging. Val matched his frigid stature and tilted her chin up.

Finally, Jon sighed and spoke. "You are a Princess. Maybe not to the Wildlings, but to those South of Wall and my Brother's. Let them make you that _._ If you are aiming to command, then _do that_. Command your people, in the name Mance Rayder, to be peaceful among their stay with the Night's Watch. And find _places_ for them to go."

"And where would we go, Lord Snow?" Val mused. "Tormund awaits beyond The Wall with an army of wildlings, and there will be more heading south sooner than we know."

Jon nodded, "We'll go to Tormund first. Tell him what needs to be done."

A smile tugged at Val's lips. _We'll go? He means to join me._

"You need alliances," Jon continued, lost in thoughts of strategies and the upcoming war. "Safe havens, inns; places where you _all_ must adhere to the rules. Make _peace_ with the Brother's of the Night's Watch. Leave Tormund and give him most of your army to help defend The Wall."

Val shook her head, "He won't like that."

"Doesn't matter, _command him._ " He gave her a stern look. "Then travel south of the Wall and make peace with the Lords of the North. Tell them what your people have seen of the Others and what you have _done_ to keep yourselves alive. Teach them how to fight. Teach them the old ways, how to survive among the harsh winters. The North and South need each other right now."

Val shook her head, "What Southern Lord would take me and mine into their castle?"

"Start in the villages," Jon answered. "Spread the word, everything. Tell them you've come to help and only want help in return. They know nothing true of the Wildlings. They call you Princess, let them take you as just that."

"And you?"

He frowned, "What of me?"

"How do you take me, Lord Snow?" Her voice was soft, almost timid. _Does his opinion matter so much to you?_

His jaw dropped slightly, his brow rose up, both from surprise. "You're…" He looked her up and down, taking in her appearance. His eyes swept over curve of hips and swell of her breasts. A smile tugged at his lips when he looked upon her face. Jon Snow had the extraordinary fierce Stark eyes, and when he had finished looking her over, he bore them into her own soft grey set. "You're Val."

She smiled at that.

 ***A/N:** Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Feel free to leave comments.

Next Chapter: Gendry


	2. Gendry I

***A/N: In this story I am saying that Seasons 1 - 6 are equal to 1 - 6 years/ Each season = 1 year. I also tried to make this chapter a little longer.**

 **And, most importantly, thank you to those who have taken the time to read this and/or follow/review/like/etc. It's very much appreciate.**

 **Enjoy.**

 _ **Braavos**_

 _ **Five Years After The War of the Five Kings/The Stabbing of Jon Snow...**_

 **GENDRY**

The shout was a low and loud "NO!"

Gendry, annoyed, dropped his arm and let his sword rest by his side. His opponent, who wore armor and a steel helm, smoothly sheathed their own sword and waited.

The man who had shouted was long of leg and had a mane of golden-grey hair to his shoulders. His beard grew in thick and coarse, surrounding a frowning mouth. He had sharp, accusing eyes, as green as emeralds. And though the small yard behind a Braavosi armory was lit only by the moon, it was easy to see his tattered clothing held no mark of distinct loyalty. Yet, despite his attempts at disguise, to Gendry there was no mistaking who the stranger was.

His long strides crossed the yard and reached Gendry quickly, and the forty-and-seven year old man glared into the blacksmith's face. "Have you learned _nothing_?! Pull your damned head out of your arse!"

Gendry, at six-and-twenty years of age, was taller, stronger, and quicker tempered than the shaggy looking man before him. After years of hammering steal in a forge, his muscles had stacked upon themselves. His neck was thick, shoulders broad, and his arms were colossal in both strength and size. He stood, breathing hard out of his nose and looking more like an _actual_ bull than he had when he was nothing more than a stubborn boy and the name was given to him. His face reddened with anger and the grip on the hilt of his second hand sword tightened. He'd always had an immense stubbornness, and the past decade had done nothing but fuel a boiling rage within him.

When he spoke, his voice was a low, dark, _threatening_ rumble that came from deep within his chest. "Get the fuck out of my face, _Lannister_."

Jaime refused to move and though he had to raise his eyes to meet the younger man's glower, he felt no fear in the meeting. "Slash! Not chop! _Slash!_ You fucking imbecile!" He roared. "You've been at this _all fucking night_ , get it right!" He turned on his heel and began walking away, calling over his shoulder. "And don't be afraid to _strike_ her! You won't take her down anyways, but you might as well try!"

Bitter, Gendry spat on the ground before raising his sword again to meet his opponent. "I don't want to hurt you, Brienne!" He shouted at the knight.

From behind her steal helm came the gentle, feminine voice of Brienne of Tarth. "You won't, Gendry." He could hear the smile behind her words.

It only infuriated him.

The Bull charged, anger and momentum sending him flying across the small yard they practiced in. He attacked Brienne, bringing the sword down as if he would a hammer. He was heavier, by far, and over the years his power had aided in the few battles he'd fought in. The Bull was a proven warrior and able to swing a sword, mercilessly hacking anyone in his path. Yet, when it came to the _technicalities_ and _specifics_ of swordplay, he lacked the discipline and technique of a skilled fighter.

Ducking under, Brienne averted Gendry's superior weight, and spun around, causing him to lose his balance and stumble forward.

"For _fucks sake!"_ Jaime growled, throwing his hands up as if defeated.

Steadying himself, Gendry shot an annoyed glare towards Jaime before he turned to Brienne and squared up to her. She mimicked him, pointing her sword as he did. They circled each other and then Gendry dove forward again.

It was a predictable move.

Brienne raised her own sword to stop him and took the impact of his superior weight. The Bull leaned over her, pushing his dinged and beaten sword down upon Oathkeeper - Brienne's own Valyrian steel - until the two hovered mere inches between their faces. Anger blazed in his eyes, as it always did. The same dark look that had haunted him long before he'd met Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister.

Quickly, Brienne bashed her helmed head against his bare forehead. _Crack!_

" _Fuck!_ " Gendry snarled, stumbling backwards and rubbing the quickly swelling bruise. "What the fuck was that for?!"

" _That_!" Jaime shouted. "Was exactly what you should have anticipated! Where the fuck is your head tonight? You haven't landed a _single_ blow to her, nor are you capable of standing on your own two feet! You worthless fucking -"

"Jaime…" Brienne interjected softly. She threw an apologetic shrug to Gendry, though he ignored her and stood with his fierce eyes fixed on Jaime.

He said nothing, but the look of him screamed fury. It required little effort to anger the Bull. And Jaime was no help, as he continuously antagonized the younger man. From the first time the two had met they'd hated each other. And yet, they'd been stuck as reluctant outlawed partners for the past five years.

Tonight was no different. Immediately, Jaime stepped squarely up to Gendry and pushed him hard. The Bull barely stumbled. "I want you to _fight,_ damn it!" He pushed again, fully aware of Gendry's anger growing.

"How the fuck have you managed to stay _alive_ all this time?!" Jaime exploded. They stood man-to-man, seething and red of face. "You may have Robert's face, _bastard,_ but you have _none_ of his skill! You're as useful as tits on a Silent Sister!"

Gendry stood clenching his jaw tightly. When he spoke, his voice was low, and rumbled with danger. "Get the fuck _-" SMACK!_ Jaime struck him across the face with his golden sword hand.

"Jaime!" Brienne shouted. It didn't matter.

Without taking knowledge to his now cut and swelling lip, the Bull lunged for the Kingslayer and knocked them both to the ground. The two scuffled in the dirt and rock of the Braavosi yard, in a fit of rolls and kicks, swearing at each other and creating dust clouds that swirled in the moonlight.

Once Jaime slammed onto the dirt, the wind being knocked from him, Gendry grabbed him by the front of his shabby tunic. Being bigger, Gendry had the advantage and used his massive thighs to keep Jaime pinned under him and on the ground. " _You fucking_ -"

"- _Cock sucking_ -" Jaime struggled under the weight. His face bloody and bruising quickly.

" - _Fucking Lannister!"_ The Bull roared, using his superior position to aid him in landing blow after blow all over the Kingslayer.

"Damn it!" Brienne swore. Unsheathing her sword, she marched towards the fight and promptly grabbed a fistful of shaggy black hair. Gendry grunted as she yanked his head back and stuck Oathkeeper below his chin.

"Calm down." Brienne warned.

Flushed and furious, The Bull heaved breaths of air. His fierce blue eyes glared at her and he _snarled_. Brienne tightened her hold on his hair and brought the sword closer to his neck. "Gendry…"

He let out a huff of breath and granted a quick nod. Brienne gave him a small smile and released him. Hastily, he raised himself from his position above Jaime and stalked off.

From the ground, Jaime shouted after him through a bloodied lip. "Where are you-"

"Fuck off!" The Bull growled over his shoulder.

Jaime snorted, and pushed himself to his feet. "My arse."

"Leave him be," Brienne intercepted him. "He needs to think."

Long before had winter set in and he'd come to Braavos, - before the Dragon Queen had come to Westeros, before he'd met Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth, before Lady Stoneheart and before Lord Beric Dondarrion - he was nothing more than a stubborn boy.

A _stupid bullheaded_ boy.

Born in Flea Bottom to a golden-haired tavern wench, and no father, Gendry became an apprentice to the great amoror Tobho Mott after the death of his mother. He'd been a young child when she had passed and the only memories Gendry had of her were of yellow hair and lullabies. Soon after he was orphaned, he'd been brought to the the Street of Steel and given to his new master.

Being too young when he first arrived, Gendry spent his earliest years feeding coal to the massive, never ending fires and fetching tools for Tobho. But mostly, he ran up and down the many stairs of the forge. Tobho's smithy was the largest building on the Street of Steel, towering over all the rest. And Tobho had _years_ worth of coal stocked in the top levels. For Gendry, it seemed as though the fires were always hungry. He ran so much that his legs were the first part of him to grow strong. And if he didn't _run,_ he'd get a beating.

When he'd become big enough to swing a hammer, Tobho put him to work among the anvils and swords. Gendry had taken to his master's teachings grandly and promptly proven to be a hard worker and hold remarkable talent.

Among the fire and steel he felt the most at ease. Shaping and molding, beating and hammering...it was all a language he spoke fluently. His first creation had been a horseshoe - easy enough. Not long after, he began crafting a helmet that became the symbolism of his identity. Tobho had praised him often, saying that though Gendry was crude and stubborn, he was a fine a craftsman and good apprentice to him.

And yet, shortly after the death of King Robert Baratheon, Tobho Mott terminated the apprenticeship and instructed Gendry to join the Night's Watch.

 _And shortly after that..._

 _Cliiiing! Cliiiiing!_ He brought the hammer down upon the sword with great might, beating it into it's proper shape. The high-pitched cry of metal being struck sang throughout the forge. With each strike his anger grew and he struck harder.

Again. _Cling!_

And again. _Cliiing!_

And again. _Cliiiiing!_

 _Seven years..._ He brooded. _Seven fucking years…None of it had mattered._

He thought of the War of the Five Kings, and how the country had bled for _years._ Lannister men had ripped apart the country, killing thousands of innocents in the name of bastard of incest. For a time, Gendry had stayed on with the Brotherhood Without Banners and protected those fleeing from slaughter. He'd forged weapons for his fellow knights and brothers in a smithy behind the inn at the crossroads. He fought against ravagers who came to butcher the men and rape the women of the Riverlands.

And it didn't matter. Westeros still suffered. And people were still massacred.

The High Sparrow had sent armed fanatics to the streets of King's Landing everyday to punish sinners of The Seven. People were beaten for their crimes openly, with no protection from the City Watch. King Tommen and Queen Margaery turned a blind eye to the High Sparrow's actions. He was free to serve justice as the Seven had seen fit.

 _The faith and the crown are the two pillars that hold up this world. One collapses, so does the other._

 _Cliiiiiiing!_ He struck the sword.

The Mad Queen had set the Sept of Baelor ablaze with green Wildfire in a desperate final play for control. It worked, though she ruled over nothing more than ash and bone. When Tommen's body was found among the dead, Cersei had gone mad with despair. She locked herself away in the Red Keep - refusing entry to anyone that wasn't her twin. The only time Jaime _had_ come to see her, she'd gone crazed with rage and guilt and flung herself from a window.

 _It doesn't fucking matter…_

Hundreds, maybe thousands, had burned and bled and _died_ in King's Landing that night. Gendry had heard stories of flames reaching hundreds of feet high into the sky, engulfing the shops and homes of the locals. The Lannisters had taken Westeros and _ruined_ it faster and with more force than the country could withstand. Men had marched to fight in wars they would never return from. Women were raped and then murdered when mobs such as the Bloody Mummers came to their villages. Children were left scattered, wounded, ill, and orphaned all around the country.

And the Bull _loathed it all._

He swung the hammer down. _Cliiiiiing!_ Sweat dripped down his frowning brown. His face, flushed and red from the heat of the fireplace and work of shaping the steel. His jaw clenched and he huffed angrily threw his nose, grunting with each strike to the sword he worked on.

He thought of a girl.

The hammer stopped midair before Gendry slowly brought it down to rest upon the anvil. He stood frozen in place, his eyes fixed upon the flickering flames before him. He felt a lump form in his throat as memories returned to him. His heavy breathing stopped, and instead, a frigidness overcame him as guilt racked throughout his body. It was always the same, every time he thought of her and how stupid he'd been.

She was eleven when he'd first met her. Small and scrawny, with thick brown hair, cut short and unevenly. Her temper was fierce and flared unexpectedly when she had gotten upset. And her wit was sharper than any blade. And when she yelled at you, she fixed her steel grey eyes upon you in a way that flared with danger.

He had seen through all of her anger, though. He had seen through everything. When travelling on the Kingsroad together, he had seen her for a girl before the others in their camp - save Yoren. She'd yelled at him, called him stupid, said he was wrong. But he wasn't. And they both knew it. She was a girl.

He shook his head, remembering. A _lady…._

 _When Arry revealed herself to be Arya of House Stark, Gendry stood shocked and dumbfounded. She eyed him nervously, waiting and guarded. Uneasy under her scrutiny, Gendry flashed her a smile and threw her a tease about the title. The shove she gave him knocked him to the ground and left him laughing at her bothered and retreating form._

 _Arya ignored him for the rest of that day. He, however, held a small smile on his lips for hours. Her anger would subside, he knew. He could see through the frown and shove. She trusted him with her secret._

 _When night fell, Gendry found her stretched upon dirt and grass and leaves. She laid as still as a corpse and for a moment he panicked at the thought that she might_ _ **actually**_ _be dead. Right as he was about to grab hold of her shoulders and shake her awake - because she_ _ **couldn't**_ _be dead, right? - the wind blew and Arya shivered and rolled to her side, hugging herself._

 _Gendry let out a breath and smiled before settling down next to her. He lay on his back, one arm propped behind his head for comfort, and looked up to the stars. He'd taken to counting them during his nights on the Kingsroad. The activity helped settle his anxious and brooding mind and it wasn't long before sleep found him._

 _Sometime, late into the night, after the men had fallen asleep and campfires had died, Gendry woke to the soft sound of crying. Groggy and unsure, he first tried to dismiss the noise as part of a dream he might have been having. But as his senses returned to him and sleep swept away from his mind, he realised that the small, shivering Stark girl was weeping next to him._

" _Arya?" He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her with concern._

" _I'm alright," she sniffed. "Leave me alone!"_

 _Gendry frowned. "You're not alright. You're crying."_

" _Am not!"_

 _He raised an eyebrow at her as she quickly tried to wipe away her tears. "You are. What's wrong?"_

 _She glared at him, "Nothing's wrong,_ _ **stupid**_ _! Go to sleep."_

 _He frowned at her and lied back down, grumbling about trying to help. Not long after, he woke to her crying again. He rubbed his eyes open to see that she lay closer to him than before, though her back was turned to him. Without hesitating, the Bull reached out to her, wrapped his arms around her small, shivering body, and pulled her to his chest._

 _She didn't protest or strike him. Instead, she cried_ _ **more.**_ _Her small body shook with each tear that fell. Her whimpers were hushed and soft. When she could not take more of the sadness inflicting her, she flipped around, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed. Instinctively, Gendry placed a hand on the back of her head and gently stroked her choppy locks. He didn't bother to say anything to her, there was nothing he_ _ **could**_ _say to make her life better._

 _I can do this, he'd thought. I can hold her. And let her cry. I-I can watch out for her. Protect her if I have to._

 _When her tears had stopped and her breathing calmed she whispered, "Don't let anyone know._ _ **Please**_ _."_

 _He rest his cheek upon her head. "I won't. I promise."_

 _She nodded into his chest and let out a content sigh. Shortly after, he felt her relax in his arms and drift to sleep. Gendry laid contently, prepared to remain awake throughout the night. Nightmares would come for her, as he knew they always did._

 _I'll protect you, he thought and hugged her tighter to him. I promise._

Gendry's heart wrenched. _She was so small then…_ It'd been seven years since he'd last seen Arya and he was nowhere near as close to finding her as he hoped. He'd searched all throughout the Riverlands with the Brotherhood Without Banners. And then, Lady Stoneheart - Catelyn Stark, Arya's mother - commanded him to join Brienne of Tarth and ensure she would uphold her oath.

"I have my own oath," He said in a low whisper, raising his eyes to the flames. The lump in his throat ached and he swallowed down a shudder. "I _will_ find you."

 ***A/N: Again, thank you!**

 **Next Chapter: Tyrion**


	3. Tyrion I

_**A/N: I apologize for the delay. In truth, I am a very slow writer. I tend to write, erase, write, erase, write, edit, erase and so on. Forgive me. My goal is to provide at *least* 1 chapter a month for my viewers. But, I've seem to already broken that goal. I will try harder next time.**_

 _ **As always, thank you for the support!**_

 _ **King's Landing**_

 _ **Three Years After the War of the Five Kings/ The Stabbing of Jon Snow…**_

 **TYRION**

The day Daenerys Targaryen conquered Westeros, Tyrion Lannister was known as the Hand of the Queen and rode a cream and golden dragon named Viserion at her side. The Dragon Queen had honored him with the gesture, joking that he resembled her youngest dragon with his own lightly colored blonde locks. And Tyrion humbly accepted - though fearful of how Viserion felt on the matter. Yet, at Dany's instruction, he found himself able to climb the back of the great beast and fly into King's Landing.

What they arrived to was nothing more than a burned city and terrified people. It was quickly learned that his sister, Cersei, had been the destruction to the great city and left nothing behind but ash, bone, and smoke.

Cersei herself was dead and had been for a fortnight when Daenerys and her army had arrived. The story went that after the death of Tommen, Cersei jumped from a window in Maegor's Holdfast. Tyrion had felt nothing about the death - save the anger that he did not kill his sister himself.

It was not long after their arrival with thousands of Dothraki, Ironborn, Unsullied, Dornish warriors, and knights from Highgarden that King's Landing fell under the might of Daenerys Stormborn.

Establishing a proper devotion to the people of Westeros, Daenerys had marvelously and graciously addressed the public with promises of new beginnings. She sent ravens to houses that were too far for her to attend immediately, promising to come and visit their lands and love their people.

She addressed that she was the daughter of Aerys Targaryen - making her their true ruler by blood. And though he was known greatly as The Mad King, Daenerys acknowledged the fear many held and gave full permission and power to her Hand to strike her down should she reveal to be a copy of her father.

Tyrion dreaded the possibility.

Most houses accepted her appropriately, praising the need for a true Queen and fresh start for Westeros. A few had begrudgingly accepted - including his Aunt's Genna Frey and Dorna Lannister of the Westerlands. Yet overall, the country seemed elated for the end of war.

Though, all ravens sent to the North had gone unanswered. Members of the small council advised that it may best serve the rest of the realm if Daenerys allowed the Northmen their own Kingdom. But Daenerys would not have it, needing the people of the North to understand that she meant them no harm.

Yara, of House Greyjoy and Queen of the Iron Isles - known as the Kraken Queen - had spit on the matter of the North. "I have fought in the North," she snarled. "Let them have their frozen wasteland."

It was a better response than Tyrion had expected. Years ago, the Kraken Queen had found her only surviving brother mutilated and traumatized by Northmen. Yara had yet to forget or forgive the incident.

Still, even now, nearly a year and a half after their landing, Daenerys desired the North.

 _The matter will surely rise again in court today_ , Tyrion sighed, realizing he was now running late to said event. He limped as quickly as he could upon shortly stacked and painful legs towards the Great Hall. Already he could hear the voices of lords and ladies in attendance. Court had begun.

Standing at the open door - and apparently waiting for him - was Yara. Dressed in boiled leather and mail, the dirty blond-haired Queen chatted idly with the two armored Unsullied standing watch.

When Tyrion reached her, he grinned and dipped his chin in curtesy. "Wench."

Yara flashed him a great smile and threw a first to his shoulder. "Old twat."

Tyrion chuckled, appreciative of the easy friendship they'd developed. Often, he and Yara spent hours drinking late into the night, talking of war, women, and law. Jests were tossed back and forth easily and more often than not, Yara's sharp tongue and Tyrion's quick wit had them practically rolling with laughter.

The other woman was older than the Dragon Queen, yet younger than Tyrion himself. She'd proven herself a worthy alliance and consort to Daenerys over the years of their relationship. As time expanded, so did the trust and bond between the two women - though they were seemingly nothing alike. Yara was rough and salty - just as her homeland of Pyke. She was crude with her tongue and held no bother to care for the feelings of others. Often blunt and honest, the Kraken Queen held no tolerance for anything less. Courtesies did not work on her and if you dared to lie, she would surely slice your tongue as you spoke.

Much due to her forward and honest nature, Yara had earned the respect of Tyrion in a matter of moments. She held no tongue when she believed a plan to be foul. And she cared not to mind her manners with those whom opposed and refused to see the error of their way.

"You're late," Yara crossed her arms before her and stared down at him with a sly smile.

"Forgive me," he shrugged. "I lost track of time."

"Mhm," Yara raised an eyebrow. "And who were you with _this_ time?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. " _No one_ ," he sighed. "How many times must I tell you?"

"Until you tell the truth."

Tyrion groaned. Yara had this notion in her head that Tyrion spent his nights visiting whores in brothels, rather than slaving over matters of the realm - not that he blamed her. He hadn't been called a whoremonger for nothing.

In truth, he kept himself locked away in his quarters. Though with books for company, not women. He had not had a woman in years. And had no plan to have one now. Women often brought heartache with them. Whether for themselves or him, it did not matter. Years of experience with the fairer sex had cemented his opinion.

He would live without them. And thus, live without love.

Tyrion and Yara slipped in through the doorway and quietly stood amongst the crowd. It was far better to go unnoticed and quietly listen to the complaints of the Kingdom, than make a loud entrance and disrupt everything. Quickly, they found spaces near the front of the crowd and passively watched as lords and ladies begged from their new Queen.

Sitting diligently upon the massive and intimidating Irone Throne - and looking quite small in comparison - was Daenerys Targaryen. She kept fantastic posture, keeping her spine straight and from touching the back of the chair. Her head was held high while her small, elegant hands folded neatly in her lap as she waited. Her violet eyes remained on her current visitor - whom spoke a tale of thieves invading their village. And her smile remained neutral, some parts loving and some reserved. She made the picture of patience when she sat as such.

Varys stood to the left of the Queen, upon the platform that held her Iron Throne. His hands were neatly folded in his long, draping sleeves. He listened carefully to the beggar below and quietly whispered in Daenerys' ear before she smiled and nodded.

"My dear friend," she addressed the commoner. "I have heard your story and offer my deepest apologies. These thieves shall not go unpunished. I shall dispatch a band of Knights to bring these villains to the capitol - where they shall receive their fate. For you, I offer livestock for your farms and workers to help rebuild any destruction to your village."

Tentatively, the beggar, repeated "Thank you, my Queen" as he quickly left the Great Hall.

As always, hours passed slowly by as Daenerys and her council listened to the wants and needs of the people. Many still had homes in ruins and no where to live. Others were in need of more livestock or extra help for farming. _All_ were starving _._

The food supply in Westeros was plummeting. Winter was truly setting in, making it difficult for farmers to grow a proper crop. And Cersei had not left the country well off before she died. The crown was _millions_ in debt - to both Tyrion's own house and the Tyrells. But the Iron Bank of Braavos was the most heavy concern hanging above their heads. Daenerys was continually receiving letters from the bank, demanding her to pay what Robert, Joffrey, Tommen, and Cersei did not.

 _The Iron Bank of Braavos does not hold interest in who sits upon the Iron Throne,_ the latest had said. _It only acknowledges finances. A debt has yet to be repaid by the Crown of Westeros. This will be the final notice._

Immediately, the Lady Olenna Tyrell boarded a ship with a mind to straighten out the mess with the Braavosi bank. Tyrion - knowing the strength and influence the matriarch of Highgarden - held no doubt that the Queen of Thorns was completely capable of solving the financial problem.

 _Thanks in large,_ Tyrion thought, _to being more wealthy than our Queen._

Through the high placed windows of the Great Hall, it was obvious that the sun was starting to lower itself to bed. Court had taken _all day_ , and Tyrion's knees and hips were aching badly from all the standing. The lords and ladies surrounding him stifled yawns and shifted their weight from one foot to another. But upon her seat above all the rest, Daenerys remained a statue, listening intensely to every person needing her attention.

At one point, Yara nudged him and made a motion with her hand as if she were drinking from a mug. She raised her eyebrows in question and immediately Tyrion nodded - knowing she meant for the two of them to visit a tavern after court.

 _Thank the Gods for Yara Greyjoy,_ he mused. _And her healthy methods of therapeutic assistance._

He returned his gaze to the center of the Great Hall as two figures, dressed in tattered, heavy cloaks, stepped forward. The first was robust and tall. He stood upright and swiftly pulled back the hood of his cloak to reveal a head of snow, and an aged and gruff looking face surrounded by a white beard.

The man stared up at the Daenerys, determination and purpose written across his features. He held a scowl as he observed. "Your Grace," he bowed.

From his position among the crowd, Tyrion mused. "Lord Yohn Royce. A pleasure to see you again."

The Lord of Runestone snapped his head in Tyrion's direction and met him with a frown so deep it looked to _never_ leave his face. He said nothing, surely knowing he stood staring at the Hand of the Queen.

"You know this man?" Daenerys looked to Tyrion.

"Oh yes," he said lowly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "We've met before."

Lord Royce nodded, "Yes, Your Grace. Your Hand was prisoner at the Eerie years ago, under the Lady Lysa Arryn."

"Not entirely," Tyrion interjected. "I was Catelyn Stark's prisoner. Lysa was more _aggressive_ though."

Glaring, Royce ground his teeth and returned his look to the Queen. "My traveling companion and I come from the Vale of Arryn, with the news that Lord Petyr Baelish is dead."

A gasp swept through the crowd of attendees, all shocked by the news. Tyrion muttered "Good fucking riddance" and Yara snickered next to him.

"How did it happen?" Daenerys asked cooly, the death did not matter to her.

"I killed him myself, Your Grace."

 _That_ Tyrion did not expect. Yohn Royce had been marked as an honorable man, never to commit an act of murder.

Daenerys frowned, "And you were left to walk freely among the people?"

"Your Grace, the lord and ladies of the Eyrie congratulated me on the victory." Royce stood to his fullest height at the honor. "For it is widely known among the Vale that Petyr Baelish was a _vile_ man -"

" - we can agree on that -" Tyrion interjected.

" - whom _murdered_ our Lady Lysa, _as well_ _as_ the young Lord Robin Arryn."

Another exclamation of awe struck through the crowd with calls of "That poor boy!" and "Had Littlefinger _no_ honor?".

Daenerys held up her hand to calm her people, and smoothly she spoke. "You have done well, Lord Royce. I understand that you best served the late Lord Robin Arryn by serving justice to his murderer. My council and I shall discuss the matter further."

Lord Royce dipped his chin in a nod, "Yes, Your Grace. I am honored to be heard. However," the old man's voice softened and he stepped aside, turning slightly to the forgotten comrade behind him. "Littlefinger's death is not the sole reason for my visit."

Gently, the Lord of Runestone gestured towards the cloaked and hooded person behind him, and smiled. "Come," he whispered, just enough that Tyrion could hear from his position at the edge of the crowd. "It's alright."

Tall and seemingly thin - though it was truly difficult to tell under the heavy coat - the caller stood rigidly. Timidly, pale fingers wrapped in strips of bloodied cloth reached for the large hood that hid their face. Once grasping the veil protecting them from preying eyes, the fingers stopped as if frozen in fear. They shook, first slightly and then grew greater as seconds passed on.

Again, Royce tried to coax his companion. "It is alright, my Lady."

Finally, after a heavy sigh and what looked to be reluctant obligation, the oversized hood was pulled back to reveal the stranger before them all.

And Tyrion was struck with a feeling of such shock, he nearly stumbled backward at the sight in front of him. He stared, mouth agape and brows raised in utter surprise.

"Sansa?!" He shouted, stepping towards her.

She turned to the sound of his voice, her sharp blue eyes fixed upon him. A guarded mask planted on her face. Her crimson hair had been tucked beneath her hood - better to keep her most striking feature hidden - but now strands fell loosely about her delicate face.

 _Her face..._ It was littered with bruises and scrapes. A cut had split her lip and had grown fat from swelling. A gash - still bleeding and fresh - inflicted her temple and disappeared into the lining of her red hair. Welts formed a ring around her throat, as if she'd been collared and drug on a tight leash.

A gasp spread throughout the onlookers, as each saw the delicate battered woman before them. Whispers began immediately, remarking on the young lady's striking appearance.

"Your Grace," Royce's voice broke Tyrion's shocked stupor. "I present to you the Lady Sansa Stark - the last surviving child of Lord Eddard Stark. And the true heir to Winterfell."

Sansa stood still, looking down at the folded hands before her. While Daenerys measured her with her violet colored eyes. " _Stark_ , you say?"

Sansa nodded slightly, and made to speak. But collapsed to her knees instead, one hand on the ground to steady herself.

"My lady!" Lord Royce reached for her. "Your Grace, _please._ Her home has been burned -" he looked pointedly at Yara " - by Ironmen, and now stolen by Boltons. She has no family. She has _nowhere to go._ We have travelled so far, Your Grace. And the Lady Sansa is weak and injured, with Bolton men following our every move. The bastards hunt for for her Stark blood. We barely reached the capitol this morning!"

Without hesitation, Tyrion limped across the space separating him from Sansa. He ignored the gasps and whispers of the court attendance. He didn't look to his Queen for permission to approach the trembling girl before them. He took no interest in caring what _anyone_ in the Great Hall thought as he quickly made his way to the long lost Stark girl. As he came nearer, her injuries became more prominent and gruesome. And soon he found himself filled with a familiar need to care for her. _I vowed to always protect you._

But as he reached her, the burly Lord Royce stepped before him, shielding Sansa.

Tyrion frowned, his emerald eyes blazing. "Step aside, Royce. I wish to see my _wife_."

"What?" Yara said in shock. Another gasp glided through the crowd of court.

"Your wife?" Daenerys questioned from her throne.

Tyrion refused to remove his eyes from Lord Royce. "Yes," he answered definitively, his voice low and threatening. He glared up at the hardened, glowering man. "Step _aside_."

The Lord of Runestone let out a slight growl of disapproval, but did as bid. The Great Hall seemed to hold it's breath as every last pair of eyes watched the exchange between the men. And when Tyrion stepped past Yohn Royce and stood before Sansa, the tension of the room was thick and uneasy.

Tyrion didn't give two shits. He stood, looking at Sansa as she shivered uncontrollably and avoided eye contact with him.

 _She's been brutalized._ His heart wrenched _,_ knowing he could have prevented all her torment - had he known she still lived. Gently, Tyrion spoke to her. "Let me see."

Sansa blinked her eyes open and quizzically looked at him. But gave no complaint. He approached her cautiously - as if approaching a wolf - and Sansa kept her eyes on him, watching with a guarded gaze.

Lightly, Tyrion brought his stubbed fingertips to Sansa's chin and gingerly lifted her face. He inspected each bruise and cut on her cheeks and lip, and his brow knit together in concern. Placing the back of his hand against her cheek, Tyrion felt heat rising from the skin. _She's burning up._

Sansa continued to watch him as he searched her features. Though she never spoke, it was easy to feel the anxiety radiating from her.

At one moment, Tyrion met her gaze and held it. Her eyes were no longer guarded and hard, but instead were brimmed with tears. Softly, he brushed back the hair near her temple and looked at the gash there. Sansa flinched at the pain and retreated from his hand.

"I'm sorry," Tyrion whispered, hoping she knew the apology was meant for more than his clumsy hands. He reached again, paying close attention to holding a steady and gentle touch as he inspected the area again. The cut was red and purple, with blood crusted around the edges and into her hair. It had to have happened within the week - for it was still fresh and bled.

He removed his fingers from her temple and returned his eyes to Sansa's. She was still watching him, her threatening tears now silently slipping down her cheeks. His heart broke. And without thought, he whispered, "You're alive."

The small smile she rewarded him lasted merely a second, as suddenly, Sansa screamed and fell forward, crashing into Tyrion. He caught her, off guard and unexpecting, as an arrow stuck from the back of her shoulder and blood soaked her garments.

"Fuck!" Yara shouted, surrounded by shocked and screaming lords and ladies. She snatched her axe from her belt and hurled it in the direction the arrow came from - though it was hard to tell who had shot it. Every person in court had entered through the great heavy doors guarded by Daenerys' Unsullied soldiers. Who could have entered with a bow and arrow without being noticed?

Yara swore again as her axe clashed against a marble column near the door. Quickly, she raced ahead, seizing her axe again and taking off to find the criminal.

"Guards!" Daenerys yelled, her violet eyes ablaze at the offense made in her throne room. "Find the culprit, _immediately!_ " A group of Unsullied fled from the room on the Queen's orders.

Yohn Royce had unsheathed his sword and stood towering protectively of Sansa - who lay unconscious on top of Tyrion on the marble floor. Carefully, Tyrion slipped from under Sansa and laid her torso down gently. He shook, from nerves or anger he could not tell, as he stared in horror at his wife's pale face and blood soaked robes. All around him was a mass of chaos as the people of the court screamed and ran for the nearest exit.

And all the while, the Lord of Runestone stood bellowing "They've fucking found us, the bastards! They've fucking _found us!_ "

 **A/N: I hope this was an acceptable Tyrion/Sansa reunion for everyone ;)**

 **Next Chapter: Jon**


	4. Jon I

***A/N:I am so sorry this has taken so long. Happy Holidays! As always, thank you to those that have stuck with me.**

 _ **The Wall**_

 _ **10 Years Ago…**_

 **JON**

As the evening sun dipped down, disappearing for slumber below the horizon, brilliant colors of gold and orange filled the sky. A thick blanket of snow _shined_ in the light. It was quiet this evening - not even the wind blew - and, for just a brief moment, all was at peace.

Though, not for Jon Snow. He stood at the edge of the wall. Dark grey eyes, narrow in concentration, peered across the horizon as the last few moments of light left the world, _searching._

It was strange, to have been to the _other side_ and then _return_. To walk among Castle Black with Wildlings and Sworn Brothers staring at him in awe, as if he were something marvelous and terrifying. And all the while, Jon could think of nothing but of the endless _black_ that consumed him.

 _Nothing_. _There was nothing. Nothing but darkness and cold._ A chill went through him.

There was no _point_ in _anything_ he did. The battles he fought, the allies he made. The enemies he faced. Serving the Night's Watch - serving the country - in ways he thought were righteous and true. His vows had been to protect the _realms_ of men. And so he tried.

And he was stabbed for it.

For some members of the Night's Watch, Jon's honor to save both Wildlings and those South of the Wall was treasonous. The Wildlings had been the enemy of the Night's Watch for thousands of years. The Wildlings were not to be trusted - the monsters would surely murder every Sworn Brother as soon as the chance rose. The Wildlings will rape and pillage throughout the North. Mance Rayder was a deserter. The Lord Commander was a Wildling dressed in black.

 _None of it had mattered._ For in the end, the darkness wins. _I should not live._

Snow and snow and _snow_ lay before him. A blanket of white, untouched and perfect, stretching miles beyond what Jon could see. The _true_ North, the Wildlings had called it. And Jon agreed. He had thought he'd known the North when he was still a boy at Winterfell.

 _A fool then._ Jon frowned. _A fool now. But I know the North better than anyone South of the Wall now._ It was true. The North was raw and unforgiving, acting angry and beautiful at once. _When the snow falls day and night, and the ice is hard as new steel. When the wind blows sharp and mean. When the furs a man wears is nothing against the cold. When he looks out before him, seeing no village or camps he could turn to for rescue. And all seems lost upon a plain of white. That was the North._

And still, the raw, bitter chill of the North was nothing compared to the dark of death

"Oy, you listenin'?" Dolorous Edd nudged him. "Been fuckin' gloomy all day. 'Course, bein' murdered'll probably do that to a man."

Jon blinked and met his friend's eyes. He said nothing, but stared at Edd for a few minutes as the other man knitted his eyebrows in confusion.

"What's that look you've got…?"

A half smile reached Jon's lips and he clasped Edd on the shoulder. "I'm leaving. I've got to go with Val to speak with Tormund Giantsbane. The Wall is yours."

Edd snorted, "The Hell it is!" He shrugged Jon's hand off his shoulder. "You a deserter now? Becomin' a Wildling?"

"I died, Edd!" Jon barked, harsher than he intended. But if anything, Eddison Tollett was a harsh man. And shouting did not phase him. "I gave my life for the Night's Watch, and my own men betrayed me."

Earlier, Jon had stood watching those same men - traitors - hang to death. Ser Alliser Thorne and the others. Men he had come to call brothers. Men he ate with, fought beside, held conversations, and commanded. These men, their necks wrapped in rope, bodies twitching and turning blue from suffocation, who had _betrayed_ him. Called _him_ a traitor, and plotted his demise in the shadows of Castle Black.

He'd stopped before Olly, his steward, and stared up at the lifeless boy. Glazed, hollow eyes, blue and purple puffed face, and a slack jaw. Just as the other five. _Perhaps he'd always been one of them. And I put faith in foolishness._

He had looked upon every face. Each pale and lifeless, with tongues hanging out and glossy inert eyes. He studied them for long measured moments. Searching for _something_ in them and receiving nothing. Only dead, empty eyes stared back.

"You can't leave." Edd frowned. "You're the _Lord Commander_. You're _supposed_ to lead."

"Aye," Jon nodded, looking down at his feet. "I did. And I died for it." He brought his dark eyes back to his friend. "My Watch has ended, Edd. And," he sighed. "And there is a larger threat coming, for a greater war. And I - we - need to be ready for it."

"And how can the Night's Watch _do that_ without our Lord Commander here?!"

Jon placed his hand on Edd's shoulder, gripping it firmly and eyeing him levely. " _You_ can lead." He said it with belief, and when Eddison tried to shrug him off again, Jon didn't let go. "I need you to step up, Edd. You know what's coming for us. You've _fought_ against them, same as I. And I _know_ you can lead your brothers against our enemies."

The frown on Edd's face deepened. "Sounds like you're not coming back."

Jon shook his head, "I might not. I don't know where my life - my new life - will go. But, I know I have to help these people. I _have_ to help Val and the Wildlings. Mance was right - if we leave them beyond the Wall, they will die and join the army of the undead against us. We need the North and the North needs us."

"You're sure about this?'

Jon shrugged, releasing his friend's shoulder. "I have to try. For _all_ our lives. And to do that, I need you - someone I trust - here, commanding the Night's Watch and preparing for what's to come."

Edd dropped his shoulders and let out a heavy sigh. When he looked at Jon again, it was if the weight of the world rested up on his shoulders. "Alright," he nodded. Long seconds passed as his agreement and the responsibility it bared became reality. He stood up taller, fuller, chin held high. A different man. "I'll do it."

* * *

As soon as he rounded the corner, Jon could hear the shouts coming from Val's chambers. "Seven Hells," he grumbled as he hurried to the door. He found it unlocked and a jolt of his nerves sent him swearing again. _I_ _ **told**_ _her to keep it barred!_

Suddenly, a loud _CRASH!_ and shrilled shriek of "Get _out_!" sent Jon pushing through the great heavy barrier and into the room. His boots crunched against what must have been a water basin that'd been thrown across the room and struck the door.

Before him stood Melisandre, her back to him. She held her arms crossed, with her hands hidden in the oversized sleeves of her red robe, as she stared across the room at Val. She made no acknowledgement of Jon, but he knew she was aware of his presence. She was _always_ aware.

 _She shouldn't be in here,_ Jon frowned. _No one is allowed in here._

He looked to Val, concerned written in his eyes. She stood near the window, pale and spooked. She held her dagger tightly in her grip, her knuckles turning white. Her soft grey eyes were wide as she stared wildly at the Red Woman. Ghost stood next to Val's hip, growling.

"What's going on?" Jon demanded, voice tired and low.

Val glanced him, but kept pointed her dagger at Melisandre. "Get her away from me, _now_!"

"It's alright," he said calmly. He slowly raised his hands in surrender - an offer of peace - and moved passed the Red Woman towards Val. "Put down your blade."

Val shook her head. "Not until she leaves."

Jon offered her a small, reassuring smile as he came to stand before her. "She won't do anything. Not while I'm here."

"I did not come to hurt you, Princess." Melisandre softly confirmed. Her low, sultry voice sent a shiver down Jon's spine. "I simply came to warn you."

Val glared, looking passed Jon's body to see the unwelcomed _other_ woman. "Lies!" She growled. "You came to slit - "

"You will die if you go with him." Melisandre continued.

Jon snapped his look to Melisandre. His brow furrowed in confusion and anger. "What do you mean?"

"I have seen it in the flames, Your Grace." She dipped her head in courtesy. Jon flinched at the title, hating her assumptions of him. "I have seen all. She will die. As surely as the sun rises each day."

Jon looked at Val. She stood rigid, her eyes sharp and angry; her jaw set as if made of stone. She held her knife steady in her grasp, still pointed at the Red Woman. "I won't." Her voice did not waver. Ghost growled lowly and barred his teeth as if to concur.

Melisandre looked unfazed. "You will."

"Tell us how," Jon interjected. His face was hard, and he gave the Red Woman a look of solid command.

She obeyed, and dipped her head again. "It is uncertain how, my King. The flames have shown me very little. But," her eyes raised to meet Val's. "You are always dead. Mangled and bloody, with no one near for comfort or help in your final moments. I - " she looked down again. "I see no more than that. I _cannot_ see more. The Lord of Light will only show what he sees fit."

Jon frowned, his fists clenching tightly. "You've seen Val's death. But you cannot say how it comes to be?" He would protect the Wildling woman, he quietly swore. She was going to rule and command the Free Folk in the greatest war to come. She will need an ally to help her in the South. A friend to guide her through unknown territories and defend her when enemies come.

 _A...companion,_ he thought. And then quickly. _For travel._

Melisandre looked down. "I cannot see _yet_ , my King. The Lord of Light may give me more visions as time goes on. I cannot -"

"How did you know of our plan?" Val interrupted suddenly. Jon looked at her, taking in how she stood, no longer afraid. "Did you see _that_ in your flames as well?"

The Red Woman nodded. "I did."

"And what happens? Does Tormund Giantsbane agree with the Lord Commander and I? Does he follow and execute our plan appropriately?" Val tilted her head, furrowed her brow in curiosity. "Or does he deny us? And declare me traitor to align with a Southern - a Crow? Is that how I die? At the hands of one of my own?"

"I cannot say, Princess." Melisandre remained still and unmoving. The red of her iris' seemed to flare as she held her gaze on Val, challenging the blonde woman.

Val narrowed her eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I've come to warn -"

"Yes, you've said that." Val waved her hand dismissively . "What do you _really_ want?"

Melisandre raised her chin and eyed the younger woman evenly. She said nothing at first, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips - the look filling Jon with unease. "You _are_ clever," she finally said. "Far more than your fellow Wildlings. And you speak so…" She trailed off, letting the other two ponder at what she may say next. " _Accordingly_. Such a difference from the others." She stepped closer, her smugness growing as she drew near Val. "I wonder, _Princess_. Where is it you learned such skill? Wildlings have never been known for their proper grammar and speech. I -"

"That's enough," Jon snarled, once again stepping between the women and effectively shielding Val. "Tell us what you want and begone."

The Red Woman blinked at Jon's harsh tone. She nodded immediately, "I came to ask to join you, my King. I wish to serve you on your journey to defeat the Night's King."

"Kill me yourself, more like." Val muttered behind him.

Jon shook his head. "You would not do well in the North. Your god is not welcomed."

"There are many places The Lord of Light is not welcomed, my King." Melisandre answered. "But, I am his instrument and must do as bid."

"It could end in your death," He tried.

"I have seen my death, Jon Snow." Those red eyes bore into his. "And it is not at the hands of Wildlings."

"I wasn't talking about _Wildlings_!" Jon snapped. Ghost barked, his hackles raised and red eyes glaring deathly.

Melisandre remained silent, waiting.

He sighed, shook his head and closed his eyes in frustration. With restraint, he muttered, "Even if I command you not to come, you will anyway. I know this, and you know this." He opened his eyes, unable to read the expression he met.

"I serve R'hllor, Your Grace. He commands that I go."

Jon ran a hand over his face, clearly agitated at the turn. He frowned at the Red Woman. A brief moment passed before he spoke again, his voice low, threatening, and _dark._ "You come with us and you will _obey me._ You understand that? You will be kept under close watch and only allowed certain freedoms."

"My King," She tried.

" _You are not trusted, Melisandre_." Jon growled the words, while Ghost snarled and snapped. "If you step out of line _once_ , you will _die_. If you come near Val again, _you will die._ " A chill went through the room. "Your Lord of Light commands you to serve the 'greater good'? He has sent you Azor Azhai through me?" He ignored Val's questioning look.

"Yes, my King," Melisandre nodded. "You _are_ The Prince That Was Promised."

Steeled eyes so dark, so sharp glared back at her. "Then _obey me._ And when this is done, I will spare your life and turn you away."

"Your Grace - "

"We leave at first light." He turned from her, finished with her presence. "Now _go._ "

Pursing her lips, the Red Woman stared at Jon's back to her before tightly answering, "Yes, my King." She dipped her head in courtesy and turned on her heel to quickly leave the chambers.

The room grew still and quiet as the reality of what had happened sunk in. Jon caught Val's gaze and frowned. She looked away from him and gently placed her dagger on the table beneath her window.

Jon clenched his shaking hands in an attempt to calm the anger spreading through him. The same repeating thought played through his mind. _She's going to die because of me._ He glanced up at Val again, but she still avoided his eyes. _She's going to die because of me. Everything I do is damned,_ he cursed himself. _Yet, I..._

"Jon," She started, and he snapped his head up again. She looked... _nervous._ She chewed her bottom lip, unknowing that the small act made her look vulnerable and utterly desirable all at once. Absentmindedly, she held a hand on top of Ghost's snowy white head. An act to steady her anxiety. An act Jon had performed nearly everyday since finding his direwolf. "I…" She struggled. "I -"

He held up his hand to stop her. "I will not let you die."

"That's not -"

"I will _not_ let you die." His voice was steady, a devotion rather than mere words. "Whatever we are about to face, and whoever comes our way, I swear - " He pulled out Longclaw from its sheath and bent at the knee, laying his sword at Val's feet.

"What are you doing?" Val took a step back, uncertain of his actions.

Jon stifled a chuckle at her ambiguity and dipped his head down, to show respect. The Wildlings did not believe in bending the knee. And she surely thought him foolish at the moment. But regardless of that, Jon knew that for their plan to work _this_ was an Oath he had to make and, truly, one he _wanted_ to make to her.

Calmly, he continued. "By the Old Gods and the New, I will protect you and aid you in your battles against the Others. My sword is yours and will be," He glanced up, Val's shining eyes meeting his. "Until my death."

 **Next Chapter: Yara**


	5. Yara I

**A/N* Happy New Year! (Even though we're 23 days into 2017.) I apologize this chapter took nearly two months for me to write and post. My only answer/excuse is that (again) I am a slow writer & I apologize for that. **

**Also, I started a new fan fiction story. It is a DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV) piece titled "I Can't Think of A Clever Title". So if superheroes are your thing, please feel free to check it out!**

 **Onward!**

 _ **King's Landing**_

 _ **Three Years After the War of The Five Kings…**_

 **YARA**

"You look deep in thought."

The silky voice made Yara smile. She had not heard anyone enter, but was glad for the unexpected visit.

She sat in her personal chambers, staring out a window facing Blackwater Bay. Court had ended - or rather, had been interrupted - hours ago. And frustrated, sweating, and tired, Yara had no choice but to abandon her blind chase throughout the city and return to the Red Keep. She'd looked for Tyrion the moment she entered the Tower of the Hand, intent on having a pint and getting the _entire_ story behind his marriage to Sansa Stark. But the Imp was locked away and tending to the injured wife he'd long thought dead.

Yara had bathed and dressed; called for a pitcher of dark ale and settled at her great oak desk. A fire roared in the hearth behind her. Her thoughts kept her silent and sulking, only speaking to send her servants away for the night.

The moon sat high against a diamond freckled, black velvet sky, basking the world in a coat of silver. Thick, grey clouds drifted lazily; a steady, chilling wind slipped through the cracks of the window pane. And soft, tiny wisps of snow floated down and disappeared into the sea. Her eyes remained on the water, watching the rolling waves crash against snow capped rocks and shore.

Yara longed for _home._

The Iron Islands were nothing like King's Landing. The Ironborn were _nothing_ like these _nobles_ surrounding her. And Yara felt like a foreigner in these lands. She was harsh and spoke bluntly. She gave respect where she saw fit - not because it was _expected_ \- and demanded it in return. She had a strong stomach for drink and a stubborn mind for battle.

I _should have gone with Theon._ _I belong among my_ _ **own**_ _people. Not these primped and puffed lords and ladies._ She'd thought guiltily, not for the first time. _But, I must remain in King's Landing just a small while more and establish my own power and influence as a Queen in my own right. I must prove my dedication as an ally to Daenerys, or all may be lost for us._

The people _here_ wore masks. Lecherous men slid their fingers along the arms of married women, smiling like predators. And yet, these _same_ men were looked upon with respect and admiration among the public. Ladies chatted politely with one another, dull topics glossed over time and time again. Though, when it served their _own_ personal needs, the women of court spread whispers throughout the castle and created turmoil.

 _They care more for their high society affairs and gossip more than the good of their people._ Yara could not stomach the falsities of The Red Keep and saw through the charades. Often she found herself too heated to listen to _one more_ piece of hearsay and forced herself to leave conversations, stewing with annoyance. Damage control against rumors had been a fitting task for the likes of Varys and Lady Olenna, not the Kraken Queen. Her temper could not withstand it.

"Your Grace," she rose from her chair and faced her silver haired visitor at the door. "I didn't realize I had company."

Daenerys, wearing soft robes of pastels and cream, gracefully strolled to the desk Yara occupied. Gently, she reached for the ale, stopping only to glance up and coyly ask, "May I?"

"Of course," Yara nodded, amused.

Wrapping her delicate fingers around the mug, Daenerys smiled as she brought it to her lips and drank a small taste. "Oh!" She scrunched her nose and frowned. "It's _horrible_!"

Yara let out a laugh and reclaimed her ale. "I don't know why you insist on trying my drinks. You never like them."

"Wine is better." Daenerys shrugged. "It looks elegant too."

The Kraken Queen smiled, raising an eyebrow at the Targaryen. "Shall I call for some?"

"No, no," Daenerys waved dismissively and sat in one of the accompanying chairs meant for guests. She folded her hands neatly and looked eagerly at the older woman. "How did your search go?"

Yara sighed and poured herself another mugful. "Not well." Her investigation _had_ been futile.

When court began, Yara had stood at the entrance of the Great Hall, talking with the guards who flanked the humongous bronze doors, and waiting for Tyrion Lannister. Casually, she'd watched the highborn lords and ladies filter in and find somewhere to stand amongst each other. There had been an exceptionally large crowd attending court, almost filling the room entirely - except a pathway, from entrance to Iron Throne, left for Daenerys to use once she arrived.

She hadn't seen a single bow or quiver filled with arrows.

When chaos sprung, Yara had reacted instinctively and thrown her axe without hesitation. She'd pushed screaming aristocrats out of her way as they tried to escape the enormous room. With _so many_ people running and flailing about, it was _impossible_ to catch sight of the attacker. Furious, Yara had snatched up her fallen axe and nudged away from the mayhem.

When she'd finally crossed the threshold of the Great Hall and stepped out into the frigid winter air, she could only guess which way to run. Whether Yara had sprinted for five minutes or five hours, she could not tell. She'd darted in every direction, circling the Red Keep and finding nothing. There were no tracks in the snowy streets she dashed across. Every corner she turned showed another bare hall or alley. Anyone she grabbed for interrogation had been clueless and empty-handed.

She had no leads or information of any kind that could be of use.

The _only_ clue she could find was the obvious: the Lady Sansa had been shot in the back of her shoulder, and so the arrow had to have been shot from behind her. The only thing _behind_ her had been the large, bronze doors of the Great Hall, with two Unsullied guards standing watch.

"You're brooding."

Yara snorted a laugh. She was not a _delicate_ woman. She gave no forgiveness for treachery. She did _not_ take threats lightly. And the incident during court was most _certainly_ a threat.

"Your life was at stake. Of course I'm brooding." She sat down in the chair across from Daenerys.

" _I_ wasn't shot."

"You could have been," Yara frowned. " _You_ could have been the target. We're lucky the arrow struck the Stark girl."

"Don't say that," The Dragon Queen glared back. "We know nothing of her."

Yara narrowed her eyes over the bring of her mug. "We know enough." She drank. "She _is_ a Stark, is she not?"

"You anticipate the worst. Did you not _see_ the battered young woman who stood before us? I found it hard not to look away from her."

"I don't trust her," Yara said simply.

"She's innocent of her father's sins." Daenerys raised her chin. "You and I have both endured hatred spewed and acted towards us because of our... _complicated_ patriarchs. How could we contradict ourselves and condemn an innocent person solely because of her name?"

"She murdered the Boy King Joffrey and left her husband to take the blame."

"I don't believe _that_ is the situation we must address right away," Daenerys frowned. "Our primary focus should be conducting a proper investigation of this Lord Royce and the murders of Lysa Arryn, her son, and Petyr Baelish."

"The Houses of the Vale have stayed out of the war for years - hiding and waiting until it was safe to leave that cage they call _home_ ," Yara muttered into her cup. "And all this time they've had the _Stark_ girl." She drank again.

"We will have them both questioned," Daenerys offered, her violet eyes sharp.

Yara sat with her eyes fixed on the mug of ale in her hands, trying to avoid the look the other woman was giving her. She did not _trust_ House Stark. She couldn't, especially _not_ after the nine years her only living brother spent as a _prisoner_ in Winterfell.

Finally, the weight of the Dragon Queen's stare became too much and Yara let out a groan. "Daenerys...I'm _fine._ "

"You're lying." The younger woman stated. Her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed as she searched Yara's face for an answer.

Yara snorted. When she began to speak again, a knock at the chamber door interrupted her. Both women turned to stare, curious and skeptical eyes raised. It was late in the night; who would be coming to call upon the Kraken Queen _now_?

Yara stood, resting her mug on her desk. "Yes?"

The door opened and a guard stood before them. "Your Grace," he bowed to Daenerys, and then to Yara. "Your Grace."

"Yes,' Yara nodded. "What is it?"

"A raven has just arrived," he held out a parchment with an unbroken seal. "It comes from Pyke."

 _Theon._ Yara immediately crossed the room and took the message from the guard. "Leave us," she muttered, staring down at the waxed Kraken stamp. She tore open the letter and quickly scanned the words written in her brother's hand.

The letter was short and to the point - more of a note, in fact. And it told of an infiltration that had come to the Iron Islands. Pyke had prevailed by the end of the small battle that occurred there. However, in the midst of the fighting, Rodrick the Reader - the brother of Yara and Theon's disturbed mother - had been taken captive by the enemy.

 _I did not see who took him, sister,_ Theon wrote. _But I vow to find him and return him home._

"Well?" Daenerys asked eagerly. She sat upright, giving Yara a look of concern.

"Raiders have come to my homeland," Yara spoke without lifting her eyes from Theon's letter. "My Uncle Rodrick has been taken…"

Turning on her heel, Yara immediately left her personal chambers, her temper flaring with each step. There was only _one_ person who could be behind these random attacks on the Iron Islands. The only enemy she'd left _alive_ when she'd returned to Westeros with Daenerys and claimed her father's throne.

 _I should have buried my axe in his belly,_ Yara cursed herself. _I_ _ **never**_ _should have let him live._

Her feet carried her swiftly through the halls of the Red Keep and in a matter of time, Yara was descending the steps of the dungeons. Behind her, Daenerys hustled to keep up. The smaller woman had shorter legs and her billowing skirts did nothing to help her match Yara's speed.

"Yara!" Daenerys called. "Don't go down there, it won't help!"

Without stopping, the headstrong Greyjoy growled over her shoulder, "We'll see about that."

She snatched a flaming torch from its mount; the Black Cells were the lowest level of the dungeons and provided no light. It was bitterly cold and damp, with an eerie feeling of despair and death lingering in the air. Rats scurried from corner to corner, looking for scraps and digging their own twisted tunnels. The straw on the ground smelled rancid of piss and shit and vomit.

Men of the utmost vile nature were condemned to the Black Cells. Men who'd committed unforgivable atrocities. Men who deserved worse than death. And the man she had placed in these cells _absolutely_ deserved an excruciating sentence before he was allowed to die.

Yara marched steadfast passed the gaoler, barely giving the man a glance as she barked "Open _his_ cell!"

"Yara, wait!" Daenerys grabbed her by the elbow and pulled. "Listen to me! It does you _no_ good to visit him. Think about what you're putting yourself through. The man has been locked away for over a year. He's practically dead! How could he have any involvement in your Uncle's kidnapping?

Yara snarled at the violet eyes pleading with her. "He's involved. _That_ I am sure of." She wrenched her arm away and continued. The gaoler followed close behind her and immediately unlocked the heavy wooden door of the only occupied cell.

The light from her torch illuminated the tiny room. There was no where to sleep or piss. Only straw and dirt lay across the ground. And in the corner huddled a tattered and worn looking figure. His body covered in dirt and dried blood. He sat shivering as he held his arms around his knees. He lifted a head of thin and greasy black hair from where it rested on his bicep and squinted at the invasion - it'd been quite a _long_ time since Yara had last come to see him.

"Why... _niece_ ," his voice croaked, raw with lack of use. "How _good_ of you to pay me a visit."

Yara clenched her fist - the one which still held the note from Theon - in anger. She narrowed her gaze, pursed her lips, and _stared_. She didn't speak - no, she'd learned long ago that power can often come in the form of silence. And if there was anybody she wanted to feel powerful over it was _this_ man. She stood unwaveringly still, refusing to break the tension and give into his game.

He eyed her, a stupid smile on his hollow face. "Ah...I see. You're angry with me today."

She rolled her eyes at him, but gave no answer. _You shall endure a thousand deaths before I let you leave this world._

"Tell me Yara," His voice was low and amused, like a joke was hidden between them. "Have you heard from our family recently? Seems you're most like to forget them...what with all your time here with that Drag-"

"I know you commanded the attack on Pyke." Yara interrupted him. She would _not_ let him speak of Daenerys. "And _one_ way or another, I will have that information from you."

He _smiled_. "Now, dear niece. How dare you take _me_ for a fool."

"I take you for a treacherous fucking bastard."

"Ah, now," He nodded. "I cannot deny that. Though, to expect I would simply _give_ you the details of my arrangements…"

"I expect you to crumble." Her voice was sharp. Her patience was thinning and she restrained herself from plunging her dagger deep into his throat. _Soon,_ she tried to cool her boiling temper. _Soon enough, he will die._

"Crumble…" he mused. "I believe you and I _both_ know the only thing is going to crumble...will be the Iron Islands."

"It will _never_ fall!" Yara spat back. "Not while I am Queen."

"Are you, though?" He cocked his head as he looked at her. "You spend your days _here._ Eating and drinking and _fucking_ with these spoiled southerners. And that _Targaryen-"_

"Say her name _again_ and I'll kill you right now," Yara growled as she stepped towards him, nearly halfway into his cell. Her eyes blazed with loathing and her face burned red with rage. He _dared_ to make an attack on her _home,_ to her _people_ , and take her _uncle_ as hostage. And now he aimed to bring _Daenerys_ into his lunacy.

The torch in her hand waved light around them, revealing the crazed look of her. Her smooth demeanor was gone and if she did not reach the point of her visit, she would surely lash out and risk gaining any advantage.

"Tell me how you commanded from _inside_ these walls!"

His eyes gave nothing away - no emotion, no fear. His voice, low and steady, barely whispered. "I am the _Crow's Eye_. I am the Drowned God. I am the storm; the first storm and the last."

Yara glared down at him. "That's not an answer!"

"Oh," Euron Greyjoy chuckled. "But it _is."_

Yara stepped closer, though her uncle made no move himself. She could stab him here and now, if she so wished. And she _did_ wish it. With her _entire_ being.

But as Yara approached the smirking, _pleased_ man, a thought ran through her mind. _Time will break him. And time will kill him._ She stopped just inches before him, her torch raised above her head. When she looked down upon Euron, she spoke with words dripped with hatred.

"You will never see the light of day again. You will lose your mind. And you will rot. And whether you _think_ you have won or not; you will _never_ have the Seastone Chair."

 **Next Chapter: Jaime**


	6. Jaime I

***A/N: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, a thousand times I'm sorry. I will never abandon a story. Please just stick with me. I promise to make it worth all the waiting.**

 _ **Braavos**_

 _ **Five Years After the War of the Five Kings/ The Stabbing of Jon Snow...**_

 **JAIME**

The stink of Braavos was more or less identical to that of King's Landing. Dirt and sweat and cum all smell the same no matter how far a man travels. And across the Narrow Sea was no exception.

Though in appearance, the two cities were quite different when compared. In Braavos, stone bridges stood over rushing canals and connected hundreds of isles together, forming the bastard daughter of Valyria. Ports were scattered among the city, giving landings for fishermen and ferries. Trees were few and far between, only found in designated courtyards and gardens. Temples, inns, alehouses, and brothels decorated the streets, which were flooded with folk from every corner of the world, all speaking different languages at each other; all trying to start new lives.

And the Titan of Braavos, great and mighty with his sword thrust outward, stood tall above everyone; a bronze and stone guardian watching, judging.

Braavos was a rich city, with the Iron Bank a remaining powerhouse; still the most affluent and prosperous company of Essos - and quite possibly the known world. Tycho Nestoris was a politely vicious man who held his position as a representative of the bank quite seriously. He was not a man to let payments defer for longer than he deemed reasonable. And when debts were not received, a simple snap of his fingers sent an army to collect what was owed. Even with an impasse of funds from Westeros, the Iron Bank went on as if untouched and merely set it's sights farther east.

Winter had crept it's way closer. The sharp snap of wind and the crystal white frost clinging to windowpanes told that something powerful was coming. Ships no longer made the journey to Westeros, the conditions too perilous to travel. Instead, merchants traveled as far into Essos as possible to find trading posts among dispersed cities. Seeking somewhere, anywhere - whether it be Qarth or beyond - to trade their goods for gold, silver and copper.

 _Westeros was dead_ , brought those lucky enough to flee the bitter cold and cross the Narrow Sea. And it spread like wildfire throughout Braavos, solidifying decisions to execute plans for traveling to the other half of the world.

Though the South was certainly not spared, winter had seemingly isolated most of it's horrendous torture to the North, making it a frigid and savage hell. The lakes and rivers, ponds and streams were all frozen solid without a chance of thawing. Icicles hung long and sharp from trees, bending and breaking even the strongest from the added weight. Westorosi's spoke of a chill so deep and biting, it froze beasts and men alike in one night. And of a snow that fell in thick clumps, never ending and burying shelters in a matter of days.

 _The land is empty,_ the Northmen had said. _And death rules over it all._

Since then, a ship had not left Braavos for, nor come _from,_ Westeros.

 _Good fucking riddance._ Jaime Lannister thought bitterly as he practically stumbled his way through the streets of the Secret City. Brienne tailed after him, silent as ever - thank the Gods. He was too irritated to engage in conversation.

By the time Jaime had - once again- returned to King's Landing, Cersei had set the Sept of Baelor ablaze with wildfire and declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The war had been raging for years at that point, and his twin was determined to stand atop a mountain of the dead in victory. She'd been maniacal and kept herself locked away in Maegor's Holdfast with her devoted pet Qyburn, paranoid of enemies lurking in the halls of the Red Keep. And turned away all who'd come to call on her.

All but Jaime, for she trusted him - as much as it had cost her in the end.

 _No._ He growled lowly, huffing out a breath and shook his thoughts away. He would _not_ think of his sister. _Fucking fool._ He scolded himself. _Leave the dead alone._

Instead, he swung his thoughts to his current state and situation. Bruised and bloodied from the beating he'd taken from the Bull, Jaime wanted as far away from the bastard as possible. The men had yet to see each other since their fight, both needing to cool their tempers before attempting to speak again. Though it was doubtful that a bit of separation would do anything to douse the raging fire they ignited.

 _Fucking Baratheon blood..._ Jaime thought bitterly. His body ached from the wounds he suffered and he was fairly certain at least one rib was reasonably injured. _Nothing worthwhile in the matter of mind power. Stupid and angry and muscled like a damn beast._

For years the two had been practically at each other's throat, always arguing, always insulting and irrational with their comments. The disdain between them was undeniable. And yet they were _stuck_ \- utterly and entirely, until they were able to return to Westeros.

 _If._ If they were able to return to Westeros.

He rounded a corner to find the Inn of the Green Eel, obviously still open for business, and stopped to wait for Brienne. She smiled tentatively as she neared him and Jaime marveled at how loyal the woman was - she put her trust too easily in others, assuming they were as good and true as she. And despite his countless faults, flaws and immensely overwhelming character, Brienne had found him to be worthy of her dependability.

Surely she was a fool.

Though, years ago, when she'd pulled him into the woods of the Riverlands and hurriedly whispered of a mob wishing him dead - by _her_ sword, nonetheless - he'd not called her a fool, but listened silently. A band of outlaws had gathered round a woman of the living dead, capturing Freys and Lannisters alike and slaughtering them. Brienne had been taken, as well as his brother's squire, Podrick Payne. And would only be spared if Jaime laid lifeless and bloody at the feet of Lady Stoneheart.

If not for her warning, he would not have lived. He would have walked right into a trap, believing the tall, unseemly woman he'd come to trust, and met his death. But Brienne had revealed all and the Lion of Lannister had concocted a faintly reliable plan of escape.

Jaime thought - not for the first time - that Brienne the Beauty was possibly the only person who truly cared what happened to him. Immediately he felt a sting of guilt. His ill temper was not something she should have to endure.

And so he flashed her a grin in return and tilted his head towards the inn. "Hungry?"

-O-O-O-

Upon entering the Green Eel, they were greeted by a rowdy crowd all in want of dinner and shelter. Serving girls floated around on light feet, carrying mugs of ale and platters of food. Their skirts swirled in the orange light of a roaring fire, and they smiled at the flirting taunts given by bawdy men. By the time one finally made her way to Jaime and Brienne, the two were ravished and eager.

"Evenin' all," the girl batted her eyes at Jaime, who'd looked no better than a beggar in his tattered rags. "What'll we be havin'?"

He looked up at her and smiled, his swollen lip splitting open. One of his eyes had been bruised so badly, it'd closed shut completely, making his face look lopsided and ugly. "Well, now," He chuckled at the girl. "You can see I'm in a bit of a need drink, my dear."

"Oh!" she gasped, "Gods man, are you alright?"

His smile widened, "Fine, child. But a _drink_ would help. And one for her as well." He nodded at Brienne, who sat across the table from him.

Their server nodded, eyeing him with concern. "Yes, sir. 'Course. An-and I'll see if my mother has any salve made for your wounds."

Jaime dipped his head in courtesy, "I'd appreciate it."

"Right away." Turning on her heel, the young lady sped off to complete the order.

Jaime turned his look to Brienne, a sly smile on his face. "She was nice."

Brienne rolled her eyes, "They're _all_ nice, it seems."

He shrugged, "They wouldn't be if they knew my true name, my history. Best let them have their made up fantasies about me."

"Fantasies," Brienne scoffed and crossed her arms. She leaned back in her chair and glared at him. "You fancy _yourself_ too much, in my opinion. You know that when…" her voice trailed off and her brow creased suddenly.

"What is it?" Jaime frowned at her.

" _Sh!_ " She waved him off and then nodded her head backwards, referring to whatever was behind her. " _Listen."_

He switched his gaze passed Brienne to a salty looking pair at the table over. The men, both leathered and rough for wear, sat hunched over mugs of ale and muttering a story of thievery. The first and teller of the tale, looked to be the offspring of a giant, with a height and mass that rivaled the Bull. His head was bare, except for a pair of great bushy black eyebrows and a grey beard that hung to the middle of his torso.

"Small little thing," he'd grumbled. "But _fierce_. She clocked me in me nose when I noticed her reaching for me coins. Didn't grab 'er fast enough. She snatched away me purse and ran off before I had a chance to collect me bearings. Caught a look though."

"Oh, aye?" his companion, who was of smaller stature, raised a brow while sipping his drink. "One o' them orphans, eh?"

The first had shook his head, "No, but ye'd think so by first look o' 'er. Took me a minute to realize it was a woman! Though still young enough to be me grandbaby. She was feisty, the little devil! With a fearsome set o' thunder eyes."

"Thunder eyes?"

"Oh aye," the bigger man nodded. "Great dark grey clouds, they were! Just like a wicked storm blazing through the night. Beautiful, they were. So beautiful, I nearly forgot she was robbin' me!"

His friend laughed in his cup. "That'd be just like you, man! Lettin' some thievin' wench glide away with your earnings just cuz she batted her lashes at you!"

"I didn't _let_ her steal from me!" The first man glared. "I followed her to Ragman's Harbor. She's quick, yes, but me legs are long and I could see her over the crowds. Only lost her when I turned a wrong corner and came to an empty house on a dead end."

"'Spose she went inside to hide?"

"Oh aye," a nod. "I'd thought o' that and went 'round the place to find it all locked up! And the windows were too high for a person to reach. There weren't a chance for anyone to enter."

"So she got away, eh?" the other chuckled. "Too bad, man."

Beneath the table, Brienne's boot kicked Jaime in the shin, drawing his attention back to her. She was positively _beaming_ with excitement.

"No," He frowned stubbornly and crossed his arms over his chest. "Our drinks haven't even arrived yet!" It didn't matter, Brienne was already rising and heading for the door.

-O-O-O-

Jaime leaned against an unknown establishment of Ragman's Harbor, while Brienne stood eyeing a desolate building across the street. The structure - whatever it was - stood dark and unkempt.

He sighed and lazily raised a brow at Brienne, who stood with unfazed eyes upon the dreary building before them. "You don't find this all a bit ridiculous?"

She shook her head. "It's the first clue we've had in months. We just need to go inside."

"Go inside?" Jaime drawled incredulously. "And why would we do that?"

"To find what we need."

"And what do we need?"

"Evidence."

Jaime narrowed his eyes. "Evidence of _what?_ "

Brienne frowned at him. "You _know_ what. Just because _you've_ decided to deny your duties, doesn't mean _I_ have."

"Duties." Jaime scoffed and rolled his emerald eyes at her. The wench was relentless in her devotion to her promise even _still_ after all these years. A promise that Jaime had long ago abandoned. "We haven't been to Westeros in _years_ and you're worried about what you've shackled yourself to over there."

Brienne answered without looking at him. "I shackled myself to you."

He scowled. "Yes, well. I am _terribly_ sorry about that."

Brienne turned to face him, stern and stubborn. "Are you going to stand there and pout? Or are you going to help me?"

"I've told you a thousand times," Jaime pushed off the wall he'd used to prop himself against. His long legs sauntered the few steps to stand next to Brienne, arms crossed tightly over his chest to shield against the biting wind. "I don't _remember_ what the Stark girl looked like."

"Brown hair; grey colored eyes."

Jaime looked upward with annoyance. " _Very_ helpful," he sneered. "I only saw her once - maybe twice -, _years_ ago. And she was a child then; you're searching for a woman grown now. She could look different from how she had before. Besides the boy knows the look of her better than I. Bring _him_ along on these ineffective quests of yours."

Brienne turned to study him, a look of concern clearly coating her freckled face. "How's your eye? It looks like it hurts."

The purple, green and red bruise covered his face on the left side, throbbing painfully. Jaime shrugged, nonchalantly. "Fine. Though it'll be nice when I can see out of it again."

Brienne pursed her lips together and returned to her surveillance of the abandoned building before them. Nothing happened. No one came or went. No candles were lit in the windows. Nothing but wind howled and Jaime's teeth chattered.

"How much longer do you intend to stand out here, wench?" He shook his legs, trying to regain a bit of feeling back in his aching knees. How the woman next to him could stand so soundly in these conditions was beyond him.

"Until something happens."

"Nothing is going to happen."

"We don't don't know that," Brienne glanced at him. "And be quiet."

Jaime narrowed his eyes at her. "For what? No one's bloody out here! Anyone with _sense_ are indoors."

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Brienne shot him a glare. " _Something_ could happen inside that building," She began walking away from him, towards the object in question. "And I intend to know about it."

"Seven Hells," Jaime grumbled, quickly catching up to Brienne's long strides. "You're not going to get in. And even if you do, what do you expect to find?"

"Arya Stark, of course." She spoke as if the answer were obvious. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Arya Stark is _dead,"_ Jaime cut in front of Brienne, effectively halting her. He frowned up into her equally irritated face. "And has been for years."

"We don't _know_ that!" Brienne insisted. "Everyone _thought_ she had died the same day as her father - but Gendry revealed that wasn't true! She could still be alive somewhere. And -"

"Oh for fuck's _sake_ , woman!" he groaned. "Even if the Stark girl hadn't died years ago, she's surely dead _now_!"

"I'm getting into that building" She gave him a look of determination. "With or without you."

Nothing he could say or do would work, and Jaime knew that. If nothing else, the wretched woman was persistent. "Fine," he sighed exasperatedly and ran his one calloused hand over his bearded face.

Brienne beamed.

 **Next Chapter: Val II**


End file.
